Chapel and Priest: A close shave
by Spockchick
Summary: McCoy carries out a task that needs a steady hand, and he has very steady hands.


A/N: In which Christine's legs carry her to McCoy's apartment under a pretext.

Out-take from Chapel and Priest: Husks, a Noir-Trek detective story set in a 1930s style planet where Christine pretends to have disdain for McCoy while denying to herself she has feelings for him. McCoy calls her 'Slim', which was Bogey's nickname for Bacall in 'To have and have not'. Paramount owns these characters, I just daydream about them and write down what I see. Unbeta'd, sorry.

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><p><strong>Chapel and Priest: A close shave<strong>

It was a set-up. Of course it was a set-up, and Christine could have kicked herself for falling for it; hook, line and sinker. Looking to speak to McCoy before work, she'd knocked on the door of his apartment.

Footsteps advanced behind the door. "Who is it?"

His voice was a morning growl, pre-caffeine man. It was obvious who it was, she'd called him ten minutes before to say she'd be down. "Christine."

A bolt scraped back and there he stood, in trousers, socks and a sleeveless undershirt, suspenders dangling at his hips. In his hand was a metal object she vaguely recognised, and half his chin was white.

He was actually, honest to goodness, _shaving. _She'd never seen a man shave this way, ever. All the barbers in New-Glasgow used Laza-Shava™, or as the inhabitants of New-Glasgow called it, _lazyshave_. A real shave was risky, minor planet-tremors were common and a slip of a barber's steel could lead to litigation. Holding that honed edge in his hand was a sign of bravado.

"Come in Slim, mind if I finish-up here?"

Transfixed by his bare arms, and the soft hair above the neckline of his shirt, she managed to move her head from side-to-side, indicating _no _and he retreated to the bathroom, leaving the door open.

Just out of sight, she sat in the sitting room on a brown leather armchair, imprinted with his shape. A gentle whiff of bourbon, tobacco and leather lingered, mixed with the clean sandalwood scent of shaving soap. In silence, she waited, and listened to the slop of water as he rinsed his razor, then the rasp of the blade over his skin. Her eyes drifted closed and she concentrated on the sounds of the tiny movements he made; the whisper of the flannel of his trousers and his uneven breathing. On each stroke of the blade, his breath stopped, only to return while he dipped metal in water, ready for the next pass. A minute went by and he called out to her.

"What did you want to see me about?"

It was impractical to talk almost back-to-back, so she rose and stood in the door of the bathroom. "I wondered if we need to raise Spock's drug dose? I'm worried he's becoming resistant. Could you have a look at his oxygen levels?"

"Come on, Slim. You don't need me to do that. What ya looking for? Reassurance? Doesn't sound like you. I can run through some ideas 'though."

It was true, she didn't really need help. Why had she come to see him?

As he talked through options, he continued to shave; elbow raised, displaying a peek of dark underarm hair. Tiny movements in his wrist and forearm were transmitted on to the muscles in his shoulder. Lean and slim, his shape reminded her of Spock; they both had a loose, relaxed carriage. It was a game to pretend she had a crush on the Vulcan. Charlie scolded and said one day she might go too far and alienate McCoy. After the fiasco with Roger, finding out he was a simulant, and his deluded little assistant too, she began to play games. Grow a shell, make it all a joke, be light hearted, stay distant, that way they can't hurt you.

Pipes gurgled as the sink drained, then he re-filled it with clean water, and used it to rinse his face. A white towel rested on the side of the basin, and McCoy closed strong fingers about the fluffy pile, rubbed his skin with it and draped it about his shoulders. Short hairs at the back his neck were disrupted and she longed to smooth them down.

"Well, whaddaya think?" He turned to her, palms up in query.

"Um, great shave."

"What?" One eyebrow rose, confused.

"What?" She replied.

"What do you think about an alternative drug for Spock?"

"Oh! Uh, yes, I agree."

"Were you even listening to a word I said, Slim?" He gripped the towel-ends and muscles in his forearms slid beneath the skin.

The nurse felt her jaw slacken, she licked her lower lip in a subconscious action of appreciation, and before she could stop herself, the words were out. "You once said I could shave you. If I knew you did it the old fashioned way I'd have been down here a lot sooner."

"Offer still stands Slim, any time. It's a bit of a kink of mine, closest I get to a surgeon's scalpel nowadays. It needs a steady hand," he took a step closer so she was beneath him, looking up, "and I have very steady hands."

To her astonishment, he dropped to one knee before her, displaying a wonderful view of his bare shoulders. The pad of his forefinger caressed her foot, and stroked up her silk-stockinged shin at a snail's pace, just stopping short of the hem of her skirt. A white hot bolt of lightning shot through Chapel's very core and she stopped breathing, anticipating his next move.

But his hand came away and he shook his head. "Very nice, very nice indeed, pity."

"Ugh?" The last few seconds had scrambled her synapses.

He stood and took a further step forward so his chest was right up against her and she was trapped, backed up against the door-frame. "Feels like permanent LazerTrolysis to me, shame. Could have been fun; you, me, a tub full of bubbles. Unless," he was teasing now, the southern tone a drawl, "there are other areas that require attention."

Hazel eyes narrowed and he scrutinised her, his eyes roaming her face until every hair on her arms stood on end and her cheeks burned. In turn she examined his perfect widow's peak, and the tiny gap in his right eyebrow. There were two moles on his cheek – unheard of in this planet of surgery-obsessed perfection. Beside them, on the sink, lay the razor, shining in the bright bathroom light.

Christine's brain was in gear, but her mouth was in neutral.

"What's up, Slim? Cat got your tongue? See the way I look at it, you gotta start making nice. I won't be the whetstone for your sharp cracks forever. One day I might just get fed up and stop hanging about for you to shed the skin you grew when that asshole Korby broke your heart."

"I don't do nice, Doc."

McCoy grabbed the ends of the towel once more, lifted it from his shoulders, looped it about her neck and tugged so their faces were an inch apart. "Well, you know what happens to girls who aren't nice?"

"No?" It came out as a squeak, her throat was sandpaper as she tried to swallow down a smart remark.

"They get _punished_."

~~ The End ~~


End file.
